


football fever

by carefulren



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Modern Era, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sickfic, Whump, Whumpfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Despite being sick, sicker than he's willing to admit, Jaskier drags himself out of bed and to the football game because he's never missed one, not since he and Geralt started dating... or whatever it is they're doing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 155





	football fever

Jaskier’s quiet when he shuffles into the lecture hall, forgoing his usual ten-minute meet and greet with the juniors and seniors to, instead, snag a corner seat in the top row away from the too loud chatter. 

He drops his bag to the floor and sinks into the seat with a low groan that brings forth a few dry coughs he masks into the back of his hand. He crosses his arms, ignoring the knowledge that he should lean over and get his laptop out, and tilts his head back until it hits the wall behind him with a low thud that rattles against the pounding in his head. His face pinches together in brief discomfort, but he keeps his eyes closed, hoping to mentally block out the sound around him for a few minutes to ease the thumping against his skull. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Jaskier jumps, eyes flying open, and he lets out a string of curses that clash with rough coughs that burst from his lungs. “Jesus, Yennefer,” he mutters, bringing a shaking hand to his chest. “How is it physically possible to have the softest step despite your unfortunate heels?”

“Unfortunate?” Yennefer parrots back, popping each consonant. She glances down toward her sharp, pointed black heels before she drags a slow gaze back to Jaskier. “I came over here to see why you’re acting so odd, but you’ve insulted my heels, so now I don’t care.” She smirks, arching a single brow, and Jaskier offers a half-hearted shrug and a lazy side smile that Yennefer rolls her eyes to. 

She turns to leave, bumping into Geralt. “Geralt,” she drags out slowly, deliberately, and Geralt nods toward her, holding her gaze for a long second before a soft sound of coughing has him breaking away from violet eyes toward Jaskier. 

“Go easy on your little bird today,” Yennefer says as she starts down the steps to a row closer toward the front, “he’s sporting a new wave plague.” 

“I don’t have a plague,” Jaskier mutters when Geralt stops before him. “Just a cold.” 

“Why’d you come?” 

Geralt’s deep voice never fails to send a shiver down Jaskier’s spine, even now, even being sort of with Geralt for a few months now. Jaskier sinks further into his seat, trying to ignore what’s eye-level in front of him as Geralt slides into the seat beside him. 

“Because it’s just a cold.” 

“If you’re sick, you should rest.” Geralt shrugs out of his leather jacket, dropping it to the empty seat beside him before he slumps into the seat directly beside Jaskier, their knees knocking against each other. 

“Some of us don’t have the stupid big brain you have,” Jaskier mutters, noting with a muted frown that his voice is beginning to sound a little rough around the edges. 

Geralt only hums beside him, and Jaskier’s been around him long enough to know that grunting “hmm” was a disapproving one. He huffs quietly to himself and turns his attention to the front as the professor pulls up a PowerPoint. 

He tries to listen; he even taps notes onto his phone, still too tired to reach down for his laptop, but the fogginess that’s been at bay in his head is pushing forward, bringing an unnatural heat to his face that fades to ice the farther down it goes. He shivers slightly and turns to sneeze into the crook of his arm four times. Sniffling, he reaches into his pocket for one of his crumpled tissues, wiping his nose, very much aware of Geralt’s trained eyes staring hard at him. 

“The professor’s up there,” Jaskier whispers, turning toward Geralt, both brows raised.

“You need to go back to your room and rest,” Geralt mutters back, and Jaskier frowns slightly, catching the faint hint of concern laced in Geralt’s hushed tone. 

He plays on it, forcing an easy smile at his lips. “Wow, Geralt, I didn’t realize you were so worried about me.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns through a low rumble, and Jaskier sighs and turns back toward the front. 

“I can’t miss Music Theory II.” He unsuccessfully tries to swallow back a few coughs that grate up his throat. 

“Get someone to take notes for you.” 

“I’m not friends with anyone in there,” Jaskier presses, hissing quietly as he shivers, fingers digging into his arms. He hears shuffling, but before he can look, Geralt is pushing him forward gently to drape the leather jacket over his shoulders. 

“I’ll find someone, then.” 

Jaskier wiggles around, slipping his arms into the jacket sleeves, eager for the warmth. “I’m not going to let you threaten to beat anyone up again, Geralt.” 

“I won’t beat anyone up.” 

Jaskier believes him, but he still racks his brain for whatever method Geralt is working through in his head. He ponders on it for a few minutes, groaning when realization hits him. 

“The freshman cheerleader,” he mutters, “Kathryn. She worships the ground you walk on.” 

“She does,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier glances up to see the smirk pulling at Geralt’s lips. 

*****

“You didn’t have to walk me,” Jaskier mutters, weakly nudging his backpack on the floor as he shuffles to collapse on his bed, thankful for the single room. 

“You can’t even walk in a straight line.” Geralt drops to the edge of Jaskier’s bed and begins unlacing his boots. 

“Yes, I can,” Jaskier huffs, and he would get up to prove it, but the bed beneath him is soft against his aching bones, and he really just wants to curl up under the covers and sleep away this cold. He turns to cough harshly into his pillow, and Geralt tugs at the blankets until Jaskier’s completely covered. 

Jaskier blinks up slowly at Geralt, sleep tugging at every crevice of his mind. “Don’t be mean to Kathryn.” 

Ignoring Jaskier, Geralt drops a large hand to Jaskier’s forehead, frowning at the heat. “You have a fever.” He takes a moment to consider Jaskier’s symptoms. “I think you have the flu.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Geralt,” Jaskier mutters around a few coughs. “I get a cold around this time every year.” Unfortunate, Jaskier thinks to himself, but true. As soon as the leaves begin falling, he succumbs to a cold. 

Geralt hums, and Jaskier winces, not familiar with getting two disapproving hums in such a short time span. 

“Hey,” Jaskier calls out lightly. “I’m resting as you suggested.” He slips one hand free of the blankets, resting it atop Geralt’s. “Though, all this worrying from you is quite flattering.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes at this, and Jaskier smiles around a few weaker coughs. He watches Geralt stand and start toward the door. 

“I mean it, Geralt. You better be nice to Kathryn.” 

Geralt only grunts at this, and he slips out of the room. Jaskier listens to his heavy footfalls until they grow distant, and it’s only when he can no longer hear them that he truly gives in to how terrible he really feels. 

His sleep is fitful, dark dreams tugging at his mind, only to fade away when he jerks awake for a few moments, confused, disoriented, before nodding off. There’s something keeping him from succumbing to the exhaustion, to the apparent fever weighing him down, and he finally cracks an eye open to see the sun casting a warm glow on his floor as it sinks slowly below the horizon. 

Groaning, he glances at his phone to see he’s slept on and off the entire day, the clock pushing 6 p.m. He’s got multiple unread messages, and he skims through them, squinting for even the soft light of his phone is starting to hurt his head. He’s more looking than reading, but after the fifth message about tonight’s big football game, he shoots up, phone slipping from his hand as he presses his palm to his forehead, his vision wavering. 

“The game,” he mutters, swinging his legs over the bed, ignoring the protesting ache clinging to his muscles as he stumbles dizzily around his dorm, slipping his socked feet into a the two closest sandals he can find, unaware they don’t match as he staggers from his dorm to make the five minute walk to the football field. 

He’s not sure how he makes it to the field, perhaps pure muscle memory alone because since he’s been with Geralt, he hasn’t missed a game, wishing to be in the stand as the supportive boyfriend, or... whatever they are, unclear as they haven’t really discussed it verbally. Rather, Geralt has just taken to being around Jaskier as much as possible and kissing him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Jaskier bumps into Yennefer when he starts to the stands, and he teeters to the left, head going foggy. Yennefer wraps a tight hand around his arm and keeps him up right, and Jaskier thanks her with a nod, feeling too out of it to truly pick up on the rare show of concern pushing behind her eyes. 

She stays silent, dragging her eyes up and down Jaskier’s trembling frame, face silently contemplating before she lets go of Jaskier’s arm. “And you said my shoes were unfortunate,” she opts for, and Jaskier looks down with a frown as Yennefer walks toward her own spot in the stands. 

He tries to focus on the mismatched sandals, but looking down leaves his vision swimming more-so than usual, so he tries not to dwell on it as he climbs up to the first row in the stands, hugging Geralt’s jacket tighter to himself as the pep band blares behind him, indicating the start of the game. 

He doesn’t have to cheer for he’s recently discovered that Geralt has this weird sense, this ability to feel Jaskier, and to Jaskier’s point, when Geralt runs out onto the field, leading the team, helmet in hand, he stops with a frown and whips a sharp gaze. 

Jaskier can feel the gaze before he meets it. He offers a sheepish wave, wincing at the narrowed glare that somehow hits every crevice of his body. He watches Geralt start toward him, but then the coach yells something, and with reluctance Jaskier picks up on through the hesitance in Geralt’s normally confident steps, Geralt turns back to the field. 

Jaskier sighs through a few deep coughs that actually _hurt_. He rubs at his neck, trying not to focus too much on the heat that coats his palm, and he hunches forward, arms crossed tightly around himself, and tries to focus on the game. 

He zones in and out, lost against a pressing headache, muscles pained in the chilly wind, and he only checks back into the present when he hears the band clambering down the stands toward the field. Halftime already, he notes, frowning at the score board. 

They’re losing, which, with Geralt on the team, is quite unusual as Geralt’s been dubbed the star player since his freshman year, something Geralt, Jaskier now knows, could care less about. 

“Jaskier.”

Jumping, Jaskier turns to see Geralt on the sideline, staring hard, and Jaskier scrambles to his feet, swaying as he steps carefully down the two steps to ground level. 

He’s just in front of Geralt when Geralt pulls him flush against the fence with a large hand to the back of his neck, and before he can question it, Geralt hunches forward and drops his forehead to Jaskier’s. 

A different burn of heat colors Jaskier’s cheeks, and he pulls away quickly, almost falling if not for Geralt’s hand grabbing onto his wrist. 

“Geralt, what-”

“Why are you here? You’re burning up.” 

“I’m not,” Jaskier tries, puffing out his chest slightly. “You’re just overheated from running-”

“-Jaskier,” Geralt growls, a warning, and Jaskier sighs. 

Of course, Jaskier thinks bitterly, in that moment, his sigh chops and bursts into a coughing fit that has Geralt easily hopping the side fence to guide him back up the two steps to the front row in the stands. 

It takes a solid two minutes to catch his breath, by the time his lungs are willing to swell with an uninterrupted breath, his vision is swimming, and he can faintly make out the coach yelling for Geralt. 

“You’re being summoned,” Jaskier tries to go a light route, to ease the worry lines etched into Geralt’s forehead, but Geralt only growls from deep within his throat. 

“I’m calling Yennefer to walk you back.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier presses, “I’ve never missed a game-”

“-Doesn’t matter,” Geralt interrupts, already whipping around to flag Yennefer over. 

Jaskier spends the next few minutes weakly protesting as the two bicker before him, but then he’s being pulled to his feet, and Yennefer’s guiding him away from the field with a hand to his back. He physically deflates as they walk in silence, and it’s only when they’re walking into the campus clinic does he realize they aren’t back at his dorm. 

“Yennefer,” he sputters, turning to cough harshly into the crook of his arm, “what-”

“-Geralt’s orders, not mine.” 

He drops into a chair, shaking from the walk, from the chills, from a sudden onset of nerves, and Yennefer slides into the seat next to him and waits with him until he’s called back. 

Yennefer pats him on the shoulder as he struggles to his feet, and the student nurse takes one look at him before she ushers him quickly to the back, apparently looking as bad as he’s finally willing to fully admit he feels. 

The exam takes longer than he expects. It’s cold in the room as he’s been asked to remove both Geralt’s jacket and his own jacket so the doctor can listen to his breathing. His temperature is taken, resulting in a sharp tsk, and then he’s left waiting for an annoyingly long time until he hears the same word for second time today. 

“Looks like you caught the flu that’s been going around.” 

Jaskier tilts his head back with a groan, swallowing back a few coughs for he doesn’t really want to lose himself in a fit in front of the doctor. 

“Bed rest, of course. And ibuprofen. If the ibuprofen doesn’t help, I’m prescribing Tamiflu.” 

Jaskier moves absently through the nods and “okays” needed to get out of the room, and when he’s finally given the clear to leave, he slips his jacket back on, Geralt’s folded in his arms, as he shuffles out of the room. 

His eyes are cast to the ground, too tired and defeated to keep his chin held up, but he glances up once he’s back in the waiting room, coming to an abrupt halt to see Geralt sitting in a chair, still in his uniform, and when their eyes meet, Geralt leaps to his feet and crosses the room in a few short strides, snagging his leather jacket to help Jaskier back into it. 

“Did you win?” Jaskier asks at the same time Geralt questions, “What did the doctor say?” 

“Flu,” Jaskier pouts, and Geralt’s hands freeze for just a breath of a moment before he coaxes Jaskier’s right arm into the sleeve. 

“Yes,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier huffs around a few coughs. 

“Fine, go ahead and brag about how you were right-”

“-We won,” Geralt finishes, cutting Jaskier off as he snakes an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, and Jaskier leans heavily into Geralt’s side, relieved that they won, relieved that he can leech the unnatural heat Geralt continuously radiates, just relieved that Geralt’s at his side and not, seemingly, that mad at him for being reckless. 

“I’m taking you to my apartment until you’re well.” 

At this, Jaskier nods, and he allows Geralt to lead him out of the clinic and to his truck.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm going to write one more chapter of this with Geralt getting Jaskier's flu. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated :)
> 
> (Come say hi on tumblr! @toosicktoocare)


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